


I'll Give You More than Just a Kiss

by Spidergwenstefani



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, BAMF Bucky Barnes, M/M, POV Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: “Good luck finding your pub. Be careful. There are some dangerous people out here at night.” Clint would point out that he’s not the guy in a bespoke suit and a swiss watch wandering shady alleys, but he isn’t doing much better. He just snorts out a laugh instead.“Careful is my middle name,” Clint says, like he’s not freezing his ass off in the backstreets of a strange city. The guy shoots a skeptical look at the scrapes on Clint’s arms.“Mine’s Buchanan. I guess we could both do with better ones.”“How British,” Clint says, ignoring the jab.AKA a Kingsman AU where Clint ends up wandering the streets of London at night and meets a very attractive and well dressed stranger





	I'll Give You More than Just a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aw_writing_no](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/gifts).



Clint is…

Okay, Clint is definitely lost.

It’s not the most lost he’s ever been. He’s pretty sure he could find his way back to the pub where this all started, given enough time and a quick meal break. Of course, his phone got smashed to dust some ten blocks back, so he’s not sure how he would get a hold of Natasha even if he _did_ retrace his steps. And still, there’s the matter of the tracksuits.

A loud clatter echoes down the dark alley, making Clint jump. He squints after the sound, hoping it’s just a stray cat. Hell, he’d even take a rat. Anything but Ivan the Terrible’s UK branch, honestly.

No half-wild animal comes bolting out of the gloom, but there are no footsteps either. Clint sucks in a breath, trying to shake the nervous tension out of his shoulders. He’s itching for a bow in his hand. Any weapon, really. He could make do with a key ring if that’s what it took. He’s pretty sure he lost the tracksuits back around Mayfair, but the New York grid system has softened his sense of direction and it’s entirely possible he’s just been traveling in circles since then.

A stiff wind whistles through the alley, and Clint shivers. He’s pretty sure he left his jacket in the pub, his softest hoodie sacrificed for the sake of a quick getaway. Maybe Natasha will see it and switch to Defcon 3. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s already been nabbed by some drunk guy with a preference for purple.

Clint’s still mourning the loss of his hoodie when he rounds the next corner, which might be why it takes a full-on collision for him to notice the other guy slinking through the dark.

“Fuck, sorry,” Clint says as the guy lets out a startled grunt on impact. Clint stumbles back, grabbing the stranger’s shoulders to keep from going down on grimy cobblestone.

“Watch it,” the stranger says, and Clint finally catches his eyes in the gloom. His pulse goes from jackrabbit-quick to nonexistent as he meets startling grey eyes framed by thick-rimmed glasses, glossy hair combed over perfectly, a sharp jaw, and _very_ pretty lips twisted into a scowl. Clint’s not sure how many moments pass before he remembers how to breathe, and how many more before he realizes he’s been staring at the guy’s mouth for entirely too long.

“Sorry,” Clint says, way too breathy. “Sorry. Um, nice suit.”

“You’re wrinkling it,” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. Clint realizes he still has his hands on the stranger’s shoulders, the crisp lines of his sleeves now bunched in Clint’s fists. He lets go, flailing a little as he tries to smooth out the wrinkles. The guy seems to be getting increasingly annoyed. “If you don’t mind, I was actually on my way somewhere.” He has an odd accent. Not entirely British, but something close to it.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint stammers. “Yeah, me too. Um, you don’t happen to know where The Black Dog is, do you?”

“The Black- you mean the pub?” The guy wrinkles his nose, which, from what Clint saw of the place, is warranted. He’s never seen anyone make the expression look so suave. “That’s all the way on the other side of Hyde Park.”

“Well, I went a _little_ off the path-”

“You mean you got lost.”

“To be fair, I was actually trying to get lost. And I can find my way back. I’ll just stick to the wall and only take left turns.” Clint shoves his hands into his jean pockets, doing his best not to shiver as another gust cuts through the alleyways. The other guy politely pretends not to notice. His scowl has actually faded a little, and he seems to be fighting a smile. It really just makes him even more unfairly attractive.

“That only works in mazes.”

“Dunno what else you’d call this fucking city.”

The guy doesn’t respond to that, but a flash of a grin definitely slips through. He clears his throat, ducking his face on the pretext of checking his watch, and oh hey. That’s a really nice watch.

“I actually do need to get going,” the guy says, his mask of indifference securely back in place when he looks up from the fancy timepiece. “Good luck finding your pub. Be careful. There are some dangerous people out here at night.” Clint would point out that he’s not the guy in a bespoke suit and a swiss watch wandering shady alleys, but he isn’t doing much better. He just snorts out a laugh instead.

“Careful is my middle name,” Clint says, like he’s not freezing his ass off in the backstreets of a strange city. The guy shoots a skeptical look at the scrapes on Clint’s arms.

“Mine’s Buchanan. I guess we could both do with better ones.”

“How British,” Clint says, ignoring the jab. The guy actually does grin at that, and Clint feels kind of dazzled.

“You’d be surprised.” He thinks for a second that he might say more, but the guy pauses suddenly, a look of annoyance on his face. “I should go. Hyde Park is that way.” He jerks his head to the right, the opposite way Clint had been wandering.

“Oh, sure. Right. I know.”

“Good luck, Careful,” the guy says.

“God speed, Buchanan,” Clint answers, which is sort of a new low for his flirting lines. The guy straightens his suit, then gives Clint an honest to god _wink_ before disappearing around the corner.

“Holy fuck,” Clint says to the empty alley. He’s not expecting a response.

“Bro. Fuck is right, bro.” Clint’s blood turns to ice as he hears the familiar Slavic accent. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, taking in a deep breath and steadying himself for a fight. “You think you can run from Ivan, bro? You think across pond is far enough?”

“Worth a shot,” Clint says, and turns around just in time for the tracksuit’s fist to connect with his jaw.

Clint stumbles back, trying to blink the stars out of his eyes long enough to get a headcount. There are five tracksuits now, instead of the two from the pub. They must’ve called in reinforcements. He can’t outrun them. Not here in an alley, with nothing to distract them long enough for a getaway.

“Look, Boris-”

“My name is Ilya, bro.”

“-can’t we try for a fresh start here? I don’t even have beef with Ivan, man. He came for my home, I came for him. Done. My tab is settled.” Ilya starts toward him, and Clint backs away slowly. Maybe if he can make it to the street-

“Bartender decides when tab is settled, bro. Bartender decides if he needs a tip.”

“I think we’ve both lost track of this metaphor,” Clint says. It’s dark, but he’s pretty sure this alley has a sharp turn in it. Hopefully the road is just out of view. “Listen, Sergei-”

“ _Ilya_ ”

“-I didn't even bring my bow. It’s like a gesture, okay? An olive branch. I come in-”

“I will beat you with this olive branch.”

“Okay, okay.” Clint’s made it maybe ten feet back down the alley, and he’s not sure how much further he can go before Ilya or his goons catch on. “We’ll just put a pause on the metaphors.” He tries to shuffle back a little more, but his foot catches on something. A box or a trash bag, maybe. Clint stumbles, feet skidding a little on some inconveniently damp cobblestones. He catches himself, but it’s enough time for Ilya to close the distance, yanking Clint forward by the front of his t-shirt and landing a solid punch right in the stomach.

“ _Fuck,_ Igor,” Clint spits out once he gets enough breath. He gets another punch for his trouble. Clint manages to get a grip on the back of Ilya’s jacket, pulling him forward enough to get his elbow to connect. He feels something crunch, and then Ilya howls in pain and suddenly the rest of the tracksuits are on him. He feels brass knuckles connect with his cheek, and the sudden sharp pain in his side tells him that one of the tracksuits brought a knife to a fist fight.

Clint hears another wounded yelp. At first he thinks it’s him, but then another tracksuit swears and gunshots ring out through the alley. The two guys still on Clint pull back suddenly, and even Ilya looks up from where he’s nursing a bloody nose.

Clint blinks the black spots away from the edge of his vision, squinting through the dark in an attempt to bring the blurry grey figure into focus.

“Buchanan?” he coughs out. Breathing hurts a little, so that’s not a great sign, but he must have gotten his voice loud enough to catch his savior’s attention.

It _is_ Buchanan, hair still slicked back and suit still neatly pressed, although its clean lines are slightly marred by blood splatter and a small nick that seems much too minor to be from the switchblade tracksuit number four is currently swinging. He effortlessly twists the blade out of the guy’s hand, knocking him out with one brutal elbow to the forehead. Ilya scrambles for the knife, but Buchanan stomps his wrist into the cobblestone with a sickening crunch, using the same foot to knock him out as well. Clint tries to struggle to his feet, and Buchanan catches his eye.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Clint feels like a damsel in distress swooning at her rescuer’s gaze before he realizes the blood loss is what’s actually dragging him to the ground. Buchanan starts toward him, concern all over his face, but a deafening gunshot suddenly echoes through the alley, and Clint’s hero stumbles for maybe the first time that night.

He doesn’t fall, though. He doesn’t even clutch at his wound. Buchanan just turns toward the last conscious tracksuit, a deadly glint in his eyes and a surprisingly minor rip in the back of his jacket. Clint closes his eyes to block out a sudden wave of nausea and pretends that the ominous bone-snapping crack is just some static in his aids. When he opens his eyes, Buchanan is staring down at him, pretty grey eyes full of worry.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks. The glasses are off, clutched in his fist with the lenses cracked, and a lock of hair has fallen roguishly out of place. He kneels down to check the stab wound Clint’s clutching at, apparently no longer worried about wrinkling his suit.

“Just m’ side,” Clint manages. The edges of his vision are going black and fuzzy. “I’ve had worse. You got shot.”

Buchanan’s smile is small, but it’s at least a break from his grim expression.

“I’ve had worse.”

>>=========>

Clint wakes up in a hospital bed.

No, that’s not right. It doesn’t smell like a hospital, and the thread count on the sheets is higher than a five-star hotel. Not that he’d know.

He cracks his eyes open, wincing against the sterile white. He’s in _some_ kind of medical facility.

“Ah, the princess awakens,” someone says to Clint’s right, and it takes him a good long while to figure out why they have an accent.

There’s a strange man standing over his bed, tapping something out on a tablet. He has dark hair and a carefully trimmed beard, his suit a gaudy red velvet. Okay, definitely not a hospital.

“Where am I?” Clint croaks, and the guy finally looks up from whatever he’s typing.

“Kingsman headquarters, of course,” he says, like it means anything. “Gaheris would have brought you to the hospital, but Percival just happened to vouch for you. Not sure why she’s taken a shine to _you_. Percival doesn’t make friends, and definitely not messy American ones.” The man gives Clint a judgmental once-over, like he wasn’t just beaten to a pulp in a back alley.

“I think that’s enough insults for now, Merlin,” a familiar voice interrupts. Clint doesn’t even mind the pain that blooms in his head as he whips around to see Buchanan standing in the doorway. “Give him a few more hours of consciousness before you start in with the fashion sense.”

“Buchanan!” Clint says, not quite able to keep the grin off his face. “My night in, uh. Grey pinstripe.”

“Buchanan,” Merlin mutters, shaking his head as he types something into his tablet. “He’s all yours, Gaheris,” he says, his voice somehow laced with about three different shades of sarcasm as he heads for the door. Buchanan doesn’t move out of the doorway completely, making Merlin squeeze past him instead. He grumbles something about messing up his suit loud enough for Clint’s aids to pick it up as he walks away.

The room falls silent, and Clint watches Buchanan hover on the threshold. He has a new suit on, dark navy and just as impeccably cut as the last. Other than a fading bruise on his jaw, Clint can’t find much evidence of his backstreet brawl.

“That guy called you Gaheris,” Clint says, breaking the silence. His throat feels like sandpaper, but he’ll be damned if that stops him from figuring out what the fuck is going on.

“That’s my codename,” Buchanan says, still a few yards away. “I’m a- secret agent, you could say.”

“Like James Bond?”

“Like James Barnes.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “James Buchanan Barnes. Isn’t that… Isn’t that a president, or something?” Buchanan- _James_ \- nods.

“Fifteenth president of the United States. I told you it wasn’t as British as you thought.”

“Is that your accent, then? Are you American?”

“It’s a long story.” His voice isn’t quite the cold mystery of a James Bond spy. He sounds tired.

“Are you allowed to tell me your name?” Clint asks, struggling to sit up in the bed as a thought occurs to me. “Aw, are you gonna kill me?” James’ mouth quirks a little at that, and he finally leaves the threshold, crossing to Clint’s bedside and pulling up a stool that Clint hadn’t even noticed.

“No, we won’t kill you. Percival seems to trust you for some reason or another, and trust goes a long way here.” James settles down on the stool, and Clint may be sore and tired down to his bones, but it’s still a struggle to keep his eyes off the way James’ pants draw tight around his thighs. Clint swallows.

“Is that a codename too? Percival?” James’ gives him another amused smile.

“Yes. I think you know her as Natalia Romanova.”

“Fuck, Natasha? Natasha’s a _spy?_ ” Clint had always figured mafia. Good for her.

“She is. Natasha is a spy who is more than a little upset her best friend Clint didn’t tell her he was on the run from the Serbian mob.”

“Oh, are they Serbian?” James raises an eyebrow at him. “I guess I never really asked.”

“They are. And I would like to know exactly what you did to piss them off.”

“Do you mean ‘I’ or ‘we?’” Clint says. This whole thing is suddenly feeling very clandestine. If he’d known London was going to be full of super spies and mob ties, he would have taken his chances with Ivan’s goons in New York.

“A little bit of both, I suppose.” James leans forward, and Clint feels the mood shift. Suddenly he’s back in the alleyway, trying not to let his knees buckle from a wink. James is wearing cologne. He smells expensive. He smells _good._ “I told you my name. I _rescued_ you. Maybe you don’t want to get involved with Kingsman intel, but you owe me.”

“Do you really need intel, though? I could just give you a blowjob and we can call it even,” Clint says before he can stop himself. James smirks at him, swaying further into Clint’s space. His eyes drop to Clint’s lips and Clint sucks in a breath.

“I think saving your life might be worth a combination of the two,” His voice is low and rough. James bites his lip and Clint groans.

“Is this how you interrogate people? Because fuck is it effective.” Clint squeezes his eyes shut, sitting up all the way so he can scoot away from James and whatever aphrodisiac cologne he’s doused himself in. James looks almost disappointed, like he was hoping their sexually charged game of cat and mouse would last longer. “I put one of their bosses in jail. He tried to take over the building I lived in. I fought back. It was messy. Really messy. The police got involved, and Ivan went down.”

“Hm.” James hums, tilting his head like he’s weighing the plausibility of Clint’s story. “Well, I can see how that would piss them off.”

“I told Natasha I was moving. She was going to meet me at The Black Dog, help me get settled with a few things. I guess Ivan’s henchmen put the word out on me, though, because the tracksuits found me. I think they might’ve been following me since the airport.”

“No,” James says, frowning contemplatively. “The Serbians were in the area for a weapons deal. I was supposed to be tracking them. I think your luck is just shit.”

“Yeah, that’s about par for the course,” Clint says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Well, you seduced the intel out of me. I found out my best friend is a spy. I think I’d like to go back to my hotel now. I need a very, very long nap.”

“You’ve been out for almost twelve hours.” There’s that hint of amusement in James’ voice again. Clint sighs, staring up at the blank white ceiling.

“Passing out from blood loss and going to sleep in your own bed are two very different experiences. You seem like the kind of guy that would know that.” Clint risks a glance at James, who still has him fixed with a very dashing smirk. When he speaks, though, there’s genuine concern in his voice.

“I don’t know if you’ll be safe now that they know you’re in London.”

“I’m not safe anywhere. Ask Natasha, or, uh, Percival. If you try wrapping me up in bubble wrap I’ll probably just suffocate myself.”

“Take my card, at least.” James pulls something out of the inside pocket of his suit, handing Clint a crisp white business card with nothing but a phone number stamped in gold. He flips it over, running his fingers over a simple logo.

“‘K’ for Kingsman?” James nods.

“The key phrase is ‘oxfords, not brogues.’ Tell them you know Gaheris.”

“I _could_ tell them I know Percival.”

“Sure. They’d probably laugh and hang up.”

“It really seems like you’re just trying to get me to call you.”

“Sure, but I can’t exactly plan a date while the Serbian mob is still after you.”

“Oh,” Clint says, because those words fell out of James’ mouth way too easy to be a joke. “Um, okay. I’ll call. If I’m in danger. Thanks, James.” The spy reels back a little at that, wrinkling his nose again like he did in the alley.

“Nobody’s called me James in, um.  A very long time.”

“Well,” Clint’s already managed to crease the corner of the card, and he sets to straightening it out. “I offered you a blowjob. I think we’re past ‘Gaheris.’” He looks up again, trying for a goofy grin. “I could call you Buchanan.”

“No,” James says flatly. “You couldn’t.” Clint hums contrarily.

“It suits you more than ‘James,’ though. ‘Bucky,’ maybe?”

“That is the worst nickname I’ve ever heard.” There’s more fondness in his voice this time, so Clint decides that settles it.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.” He holds up the business card, giving him a wink. “I’ll call you next time I get stabbed.”

“I’d prefer if you called sooner.”

“I think you’re underestimating how often I get stabbed.”

**Author's Note:**

> And then Clint got stabbed the very next day and they all lived happily ever after.
> 
> I didn't give much thought to how the rest of the Avengers play into this AU, but Tony is obv Merlin. Natasha is Percival for no distinct reason, and Bucky's codename is Gaheris because wikipedia says his distinguishing features were "being valiant, agile, handsome, and his left arm was shorter than his right arm."


End file.
